


Hoist by One's Own Cerebellum

by Medie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:54:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was not expected and the fact that his body has turned traitor, enlisting the assistance of his very own memory in forcing him to relive that single moment in time is maddening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hoist by One's Own Cerebellum

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for series 2

It's kissing her cheek that does him in. He knows it the instant his lips brush her skin, but its months before the truth of it can slip past his guard. Would've done sooner, of course, if not for Irene and dear Jim mucking things up until Sherlock's head is bursting with detail and wonderful, horrible noise that makes nearly everything quiet down and give way.

He can't think of anything then, nothing beyond the case, so he doesn't see the promise of sweet torment on the horizon.

Not until later. Not until he's alone, surrounded by the city whose children betrayed and dismissed him, celebrating his demise with headline after headline, does it finally break through.

Soft, smooth skin that's silky with the light dusting of powder, dashed across her face a second before she'd darted from her small bathroom to rush out to her holiday celebrations, traces of it sitting on her collar bone waiting to be brushed away by another's hand.

The remnant of hairspray (pump, not aerosol, too uneven to have come from such an evenly distributed mist) mixing with her favorite soap and cream, hiding beneath a new perfume she's just trying out tonight. Pleasant, but infinitely less appealing than her previous choice of nothing.

The familiar warmth of her body, close to his, her pulse elevated, eyes dilated, heart and breathing all heightened by their proximity...

...and the sad, new weight of awareness in her face.

With his new understanding, Sherlock knows it is a terrible thing to be so deeply aware of a truth and, realizes then, just how she had discerned his disquiet. For all that her story had seemed so true, and was to a certain extent else-wise it would not have convinced him, therein lay the truth.

She saw the truth of herself reflected back in his eyes.

The wonder of Molly Hooper is not that she would help a stranger as she is helping him, hardly that. No, the wonder is that she is helping him despite all that she knows and understands.

Sherlock scowls, dashing at the equipment around him, and regretting it at once.

Proper lab time will be difficult enough to come by (whilst necessary, being dead is also quite inconvenient) for the foreseeable future without forcing Molly to requisition replacements for inexplicably damaged equipment.

Nevertheless, the memory of that moment in the flat comes back in all its glory. His senses fill with the image, scent, texture, and taste of her. This was not expected and the fact that his body has turned traitor, enlisting the assistance of his very own memory in forcing him to relive that single moment in time is maddening.

Sherlock forces himself to ignore the sensory barrage in favor of cleaning up the mess that he's made. There is something reassuring in the familiarity of picking up, of putting things to rights, and that is what he's supposed to be doing now on a grander scale. He's supposed to be taking care of things, putting it back to the way it should be, and protecting them.

He's never been particularly good at any of it and therein lies his problem: he isn't any good at it at all. Instead, he's being smuggled into St. Bart's by the very woman his mind has been tormenting him with for weeks.

He slams a beaker down, hears it crack, and mutters an obscenity to himself.

"You keep that up and we'll have the whole hospital down on us wondering what's the matter," Molly says from the door. She's clutching a sack in her hand and is smiling easily. She's grown accustomed to him now, the sadness he remembers is well submerged, more at ease than before. Sorting her out's more of a challenge now and he finds himself quite fixed upon it.

Sherlock looks at the beaker and sighs. "Sorry."

"It's fine," she says, setting the bag before him. "I'll replace it later. Besides, they forget I'm here most days. They won't notice a little extra noise."

"Nevertheless," he says, pouncing on the bag without hesitation. She's brought everything as requested—"Wait, where are the cigarettes?"

Molly actually smirks. "You made me promise, Sherlock."

"And now I'm releasing you of that promise!" he protests, even as he remembers the promise they'd made in case of just such an eventuality. "To that one as well!"

She shakes her head. "No. Take backs. You made me promise to that as well."

"You were far more useful when you were in love with me," he mutters.

She laughs, her ponytail flicking as she turns round, and isn't the least bit bothered by his words. It's a relief and confounding all in the once. "Who says that I was?" A half second after the words are out and she's looking at him with some of the awkwardness that once came standard. "Please don't take that as an invitation to deduction."

"I wasn't," he says, looking down at the sack. He feels quite lost and, logically, he knows that's the result of _everything_ and nothing to do with the sensory assault that is his own damnable memory.

She passes him by and there's none of the perfume, just soap and _Molly_ and he closes his eyes. He wasn't. Couldn't, really, however much she might have been, he'd never given it any notice.

And yet, now, a split second's apology torments him over and over whilst she flits about the lab entirely oblivious to it.

Sherlock's quite tempted to finish the beaker off.

"It'll all settle out," Molly says, working away. "Once you've—" she pauses, apparently realizing he hasn't so much as hinted at his plans for his 'afterlife'. "Well, once you've sorted things I suppose."

Sherlock opens his eyes, feels her skin brush his lips, and turns to look at her. A blink and he can see her dressed as she was, those ridiculous earrings, and he can almost recall the look on Lestrade's face when her coat had been whisked away.

"Yes," he says, quiet so as to betray nothing of his thoughts, "I suppose it will be."

Just as soon as he sorts out how.


End file.
